Sniper

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “No, Susie, that’s not what I meant. We need to talk.”

  “Okay, if you two aren’t going to kill each other I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Mo, you need to hear this too.”

  Maureen froze in place, a quizzical expression on her face. “I’m not sure I like the tone of your voice.”

  “Please, Mo, sit and hear me out.”

  Maureen sank into the couch across from the combatants. “I’m listening.”

  “What I have to say is going to make you angry and at the same time may frighten you, but you have to know. Two days ago a sniper assassinated four people on the Boston Common.”

  “That’s been all over the news,” Maureen said.

  “The same person or persons killed Pam. The reason I was late getting here was because I met an old friend for breakfast—a guy I was in the Corps with. He had a list of former military snipers who live in this area. As he was leaving the restaurant, the sniper killed him and shot at me.”

  They stared at him.

  “I think that whatever he’s after involves me.”

  “What?” Maureen was aghast. “Oh my God, does this have anything to do with you being a sniper in the Marines?”

  “We’re looking into that. But . . . ” he turned to face Susie, “he knows who you are.”

  He knew he had lost any ground he may have gained with Susie when her mouth opened and she paled. “And you came here? What if he followed you?”

  “The house is under watch.”

  “That explains the police cruising past the front of the house for the past day and a half,” Maureen said.

  He turned to Maureen. “If he knows Pam and Susie, he may also know about you and Lee, Mo.”

  Maureen’s face became ashen. She leapt from the couch. “The kids—they’re at day camp . . . ”

  “Where?”

  “At the church.”

  Houston walked into the kitchen, snatched the wall phone from its cradle and entered the number for Anne’s cell phone. He waited a second and then said, “Hi, Anne. We got a problem. My sister’s kids attend summer day camp at the First Congregationalist Church in Winchester. How soon can we get someone over there?”

  “I can run over there, but it’s going to take a while before we can get anyone on-site.”

  “Okay. Get there as soon as you can. In the meantime, I’ll try another avenue.”

  “Like what?”

  “Jimmy O doesn’t have to deal with bureaucracy. He’ll have people there in less time than it will take us to find out who we need to talk to.”

  “Mike, isn’t that a bit extreme?”

  “Under normal circumstances, I’d agree with you. But he’s already in this up to his neck. I’ll explain it later.”

  It took Houston less than a minute to get Jimmy O on the phone. He laid out the situation and felt instant relief when O’Leary said, “There will be someone there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Jimmy,” Houston knew he had to be careful how he phrased what he had to say, “I doubt the church members will allow anyone they don’t know near the kids. In fact, they’ll probably be less than thrilled about any strangers walking in.”

  “Don’t worry,” O’Leary said, “they’ll keep their distance. No one will even know they’re there.”

  Houston replaced the phone and returned to the living room. “The kids are taken care of.” Not wanting to deal with Maureen’s objections to Jimmy O being involved, he said, “My partner is arranging for increased security at the day camp.”

  “I’m sorry, Mike, but I don’t trust your so-called police security. I’m calling Lee at work. I want him and the kids to come home right now.” She began to pace, shaking her hands as if they were dripping wet, a sign Mike knew well from their childhood.

  Susie glared at Houston. “Are you saying that some creep with a grudge against you killed Mom?”

  Houston turned to his daughter. “Yes, I’m afraid I am.”

  “You’ve finally done it, haven’t you?”

  Houston braced for the shot that he knew she was about to take.

  “After all these years, you’ve finally done what you always said you’d never do—you’ve brought your job home.”

  18

  “A sniper must remember that his camouflage need be so perfect that he should fail to be recognized . . . be able to be looked at directly and not be seen.”

  —US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual

  When Houston woke up it was early, barely daylight. He mechanically made his morning coffee. His meeting with Susie still disturbed him. There was no denying that the rift between them had grown into a chasm. He drank a cup of coffee and wondered if they could ever have any semblance of a normal father-daughter relationship. He paused, stumbling over the word normal. The truth was that he had no idea what it meant. Since his divorce, the only thing in his life that came close to approaching normalcy was his relationship with Anne—and due to the fact that they had to keep their feelings for each other hidden while on the job, calling that normal was a stretch.

  His train of thought shifted and he began to think about the sniper. This case was complicating his life more than any other had. He paused and realized that he was deluding himself; his life had always been a complicated mess—his real problem was that this case was forcing him to face things he would rather avoid.

  At six thirty, he left for the police station.

  Arriving at the station, his first stop was at the copier. He made a duplicate of Drews’s database. He knew that if he kept it out of evidence much longer there might be issues with the chain of custody. There was also the fact that if Dysart had it, he could assign additional manpower to check out many of the names in it.

  He sat at his desk, studying the names. While he recalled many of those listed in the file, most were people he had never heard of. The list made him realize how quickly the years were passing by—it had been almost fifteen years since his discharge. A lot of marines had come and gone in that span of time. He leaned back and stretched, loosening the knots in his back. On a positive note, the list of names gave him a place to start.

  Anne walked in at eight and sat down beside his desk. She placed a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in front of him. “Don’t tell me you’ve been here all night.”

  “Nope, I got in around seven.”

  “How’d it go yesterday?”

  He picked up the coffee, held it to his lips, and glanced at her over the rim of the Styrofoam cup.

  “With Susie,” she said, “how did it go?”

  “About as expected. I think she probably wishes the sniper had shot me instead of Pam.”

  “Oh, come on now, aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?”

  “You weren’t there. Believe me when I say my daughter hates me more than anyone else on earth. In the next few days, should you get a call that I’ve been murdered, put Susie at the top of your suspect list.”

  Anne sipped her coffee and then placed the cup on the desk. “Well, Mike, I don’t know what you thought her reaction would be, but it sounds to me like you got your eyes opened.”

  He stared at his coffee for a few seconds and then placed it beside Anne’s. “I’ve been operating under a delusion. I always thought that she’d understood the way things were between her mother and me—obviously, she didn’t.”

  “Mike, what do you expect? For six years, you’ve been out of her life. Now somebody shoots her mother down as if she were a fox caught raiding a chicken coop and you expect Susie to greet you with open arms. Come on, it took years for the relationship to degrade to this point and you can’t expect to make it right with a single visit.”

  “I know that—I guess I wasn’t prepared for her to hate me.”

  “I doubt she hates you. She’s young and hurting and doesn’t know who to blame—right now, you’re the easiest and most likely candidate. Although I’ve never been a parent, it has always seemed to me that being the object of blame for everythi
ng lousy in a kid’s life is part of the job.”

  “That sounds damned Freudian, if you ask me.”

  “Well, that’s the way it is. I believe there are four stages in any parent-child relationship. The first stage is the child as child and the parent as protector, mentor, disciplinarian, and dictator. Second, in the child’s teenage years, the parent becomes the enemy. Then, when the child is in his or her mid-twenties or early thirties, the parent and child become friends. Finally, the parent reaches old age and stage one repeats, only now the roles are reversed and the child becomes the parent and the parent becomes the child.”

  “It still sounds Freudian to me.”

  “I took a lot of psychology courses in college.”

  “It reminds me of something my mother once said. She told me we are all once an adult and twice a child.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Susie will come around, but it’s going to take time.”

  Houston leaned back in his chair. “I hate that . . . ”

  “What?”

  “That it’ll take time stuff. I want it now.”

  “As impatient as you are, how did you ever survive as a sniper?”

  “That was different. A sniper without self-discipline doesn’t survive.”

  “Maybe you should view your situation with Susie the same way. Be patient and let it happen in its own time. If you try to force it you could do more damage. There is one silver lining to this cloud though.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Kids are quick to condemn, but they’re just as quick to forgive. Susie may yet realize that whether she likes it or not, she has only one parent now. That alone could have an impact.”

  Houston stared at her for a moment. “For someone who never had a child you seem to have a good handle on this. Where did you get so knowledgeable?”

  “I spend a lot of time with a guy who’s emotionally still a child . . . ”

  “Ouch.” Houston leaned back in his chair and grinned.

  Anne picked up her coffee, sipped it and pointed at the folder on his desk. “You find anything we can use?”

  “Maybe.”

  She looked at Houston and waited for him to elaborate.

  “Danny was meticulous in his record keeping. He compiled a list of every scout/sniper who’s stayed in touch or ever gone to one of their reunions.”

  She sipped her coffee. “You know, I still never would have thought that ex-military would have reunions.”

  “Why wouldn’t we? You keep in touch with students with whom you were close in college, don’t you? For many veterans, military service was the most important thing we’ve ever done. We were young, many of us on our own for the first time, and we developed a camaraderie only people who have been in life threatening situations together can—kind of like you and me. Someone who hasn’t shared the experiences you and I have would never understand our relationship.”

  Anne thought for a few seconds and smiled. “I can understand that. There are times when I don’t understand our relationship. I assume that you mean they wouldn’t understand why I put up with you?”

  He returned her smile. “Exactly.”

  Houston continued reading the file. He flipped through the papers, turning to the section where the names were listed by state of residence, concentrating on the Massachusetts listing. Danny had four names listed in the Boston area; three of them were new to Houston, but the fourth he knew very well. “Here’s a possibility. Steve Northrup lives at 1369 Mayflower Street.”

  Anne took her cell phone out of her purse. “Did he include a phone number?”

  “Yeah.” Houston read the number from the file and she punched it into her cell phone with her thumb, a trick he had seen her do many times, usually when she was driving. If he tried doing that, he would wreck the car.

  She listened for a second and then said, “Sorry, wrong number.” She turned off the phone. “It’s the Belknap Foundation, a drug rehab center in Dorchester.”

  “It sounds as if you’re familiar with it.”

  “It’s one of the better rehab facilities in the Boston area. William Belknap was a high-powered criminal defense lawyer, right up there with F. Lee Bailey and Johnny Cochran.” She put her cell in her purse and paused to sip from her coffee. “His son became hooked on drugs when he was in the army serving in Vietnam. Within a couple of weeks of coming home, the kid overdosed.”

  “There are people who can’t deal with combat situations. I remember when I returned from Somalia, I went through a period of depression. Only rather than drugs, I turned to booze.”

  Anne looked at him with a level of interest he only saw occasionally. Before she could pursue this new topic, he said, “You were saying?”

  “The boy was his only child and Belknap took it hard. When the old man died, he had no heirs he cared about, so he left millions in a trust to set up the foundation. Any addict can go there, but for down-and-out veterans there’s no charge.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  “When I was in Family Justice Division, I dealt with a lot of young addicts and treatment centers. You want to go over there?”

  “Sure do . . . and don’t spare the horses.”

  Steve Northrup had gone through scout/sniper training with Danny and Houston. Houston did not remember Northrup so much for what he did or how good he was. However, he did recall that he was Edwin Rosa’s best, and possibly only, friend. Houston definitely wanted to talk with Steve.

  The triple-deckers that lined Mayflower Street in Dorchester looked old enough to have been around when Washington and his artillery scaled Dorchester Heights and drove the English from Boston. The buildings needed a coat of paint and landscaping was nonexistent. The narrow street was lined with cars, leaving just enough room for a single vehicle to get through. For the most part, the lawns were hardpan dirt with an occasional tuft of crabgrass. The street looked like somebody had dumped chemical defoliant on it. Houston and Pam’s first house had a yard like these. He smiled as he recalled how Pam let the weeds grow the first year saying, “At least the weeds are green.”

  It was trash pickup day and the collectors had already been through, leaving empty cans scattered between the parked cars. Gusts of wind grabbed bits of paper and blew them around until the breeze pinned them to curbs or sent them spiraling like miniature tornadoes into the narrow walkways between the buildings. Houston looked at the rundown street and decided that even though the Belknap Foundation Trust was worth millions, they were not spending it on real estate.

  Anne parked in a vacant spot by a fire hydrant across from the rehab center. Houston got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, staring at the building. It was not as aesthetic nor as intimidating as most treatment centers. It blended into the neighborhood well, providing the one thing many recovering addicts sought—anonymity.

  “Something bothering you?”

  Houston nodded. “I was just thinking how close I came to ending up in a place like this.”

  She nudged him in the ribs. “Come on, I won’t let them keep you.”

  “Thirty million unemployed comedians and I get you.”

  “Seriously, I think you’re looking at it wrong, Mike. These places save lives.”

  “As long as insurance pays for it—it’s all about the money.” Houston stepped off the sidewalk and crossed the street to the short walkway that led to the house. From street level, the steps didn’t look as if they would support Houston’s weight, and he was wary as he climbed them. In spite of their appearance, the stairs leading up to the porch were as sturdy as new construction. At first glance, the farmer’s porch that ran along the front of the house didn’t inspire a lot of confidence either. Houston carefully placed his feet, watching where he stepped, certain that the rotting wood would break, sending him crashing through. Like the steps, the porch was surprisingly sturdy and curiosity got the better of Houston. He inspected the building closer. The structure seemed as sound as a
five hundred thousand dollar house in the suburbs. It must have taken a lot of extra work to make the renovation look as dilapidated as the rest of the neighborhood. Anne was also appraising it.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” he said. “This building is an architectural chameleon! It blends right in with the neighborhood, but the porch and siding can’t be more than a few years old!”

  “It’s the perfect disguise. I can only imagine what it must look like inside.” She pressed the doorbell.

  The door buzzed and they entered the building. There had been no attempt to make the interior look like a rundown tenement. Everything, from the woodwork to the carpeting, looked new and clean and smelled of fresh paint. Anne looked around with approval. “What did I tell you?”

  A foyer led them past a waiting room and reception area. On the wall, directly opposite the entrance, was a sliding glass window beside which was a beautiful decorative door. Houston slid his fingers along its surface. It was composed of heavy metal and was as strong as it was exquisite; nobody was going through that door unless admitted by whoever was behind the window. Houston turned to the window and a man who looked as if he spent hours each day in the gym greeted him.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to see one of your patients, Stephen Northrup.”

  “I’m sorry; the patients are not allowed visitors.”

  Houston held up his badge. “This isn’t a social visit. It’s police business.”

  The weight lifter became attentive. “I don’t have the authority to admit anyone.” He was unable to look directly at Houston—a sign that he was uncertain about what he should do.

  Houston struggled to maintain his professionalism—he was not entirely successful. “Then, suppose you get off your ass and call someone who does have the authority, before I run you in for impeding a murder investigation.” He glared at the man, giving him the look that Pam once said made him look like Charles Manson. He looked at Anne and saw that she was looking away, trying to hide her broad smile from the frightened muscle-bound receptionist.